For Ron
by moon-dragon3
Summary: Harry has a favour to ask from Snape. Heavy angst, self-harm. Finished!
1. Default Chapter

A Songfic to 'This Velvet Glove' by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.  
  
I am both J.K and The Red Hot Chili Peppers' manager, and have access to all rights to these lyrics, scenarios and characters. Honestly people, what do you expect this disclaimer to say?  
  
*sighs* I own nothing. This included. Nichts, ne rien (only speak 3 languages) get the idea?  
  
(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((  
  
No one is waiting  
  
For me to fail  
  
My will could sail yeah  
  
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It was very easy, doing it. I mean, the act of digging something sharp into your flesh and pulling it out. It's something that even I couldn't get wrong. Does it help me? Well yeah, of course. A bit. Truthfully, not as much as when I started, when it was like. . .like an orgasm. I hesitate to use that word, but it really was - the adrenaline of expectation as I watched the blunt blade dig into my leg, and the sudden explosion of pain, the thrill of blood, the relief of tension.  
  
Now it's more like a warm blanket after being out in a storm; it's familiar, and comforting, but nothing new. Same old, same old. I don't even look at the healing cuts now. I have no time for them, no desire. The fresh blood helps, and sometimes when I need to I tear at them with my nails, and the crimson reminds me of Ron.  
  
Oh yes, you were waiting for that. Of course that's what set me off. Red reminded me of so many things - the Chudley Cannons posters on his wall, the colour he flushed when he was embarrassed, the hue of his hair. I miss him so much. Nothing's fair, is it? The 'right' thing would be for me to have defeated Voldemort in revenge, but I couldn't do that. When he came, I was herded back to the dormitory with the rest of the students, and I didn't try to escape, didn't try and save them. Did you see how many people died? I did. It was Voldemort's parting present to me, a sea of blood, and I can't set foot in the Dining Hall without seeing it in my mind. I can't fall asleep without seeing him killing Ron. Torturing him. Hearing my best friends screams for death. He didn't deserve that. I don't deserve sleep.  
  
The wonders of concealing charms.  
  
Keeping some semblance of normality (for me) was the last thing I could do for Ron, so I battle on daily, playing Quidditch, laughing and joking with Hermione, throwing the usual curses and insults at Malfoy. Do you hate me yet? I am fake; I am nothing. If ever there was a Harry Potter behind the masks that you all put up, he bled out of open wounds.  
  
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((  
  
It's such a waste to be wasted  
  
In the first place  
  
I want to taste the taste of  
  
Being face to face with common grace  
  
To meditate on the warmest dream  
  
And when I walk alone I listen  
  
To our secret theme  
  
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Yes, we share a little in common. Mutual contempt, you would sneer. After all, why should you respect me? No, we both understand the truth. We both have perhaps more cynicism than is healthy. And. . .we crave power. Not perhaps power that Voldemort sold, but power over smaller things. I never knew anyone so absorbed in having meticulous control over his classroom, and I doubt many knew one who craved speed above all other speeds. Height above all heights.  
  
Oh Merlin, what am I talking about? Nobody understands, and I don't expect you to be any different. But I like to entertain ideas of the impossible. Sometimes I leave the dormitories at night and walk around the lake, and I imagine that we are talking. I never have talked to you, but I can imagine your conversation would be perfect; darkly humorous and ironic, and you, unlike the rest of the population, would know when a pause is wanted. Will you wish you looked behind masks now, Professor? Probably not. I'm being hopelessly romantic; it is nothing more than a dream to wonder if you could ever understand me. Oh god, this note is going so badly wrong, and I'm running out of time.  
  
I'm sorry.  
  
I know all the answers to those questions, you know. The ones you asked me on that very first potions class. And I know them through understanding, I just never wanted to show it. How would it look if the Boy-Who-Lived was a boring academic? I am, frankly, a publicity stunt gone wrong.  
  
The point to this note is, you will not receive it until it is too late. Cruel, selfish, inconsiderate to you. I don't care. This is my right. I thought about doing this publicly; off a large bridge, or maybe, clichéd as it sounds, the Astronomy Tower. That's what would have made it right to everyone. But I don't care now. I want to die as Harry, not Potter. I could not choose my birth, but I'm damn well going to leave the way I want. Headstrong to the last.  
  
Please, do these things for me. Tell the Headmaster, Hagrid, Hermione, McGonagall, anyone who cares, that it was not their fault. Nor is it yours, though you are not stupid enough to think otherwise. Find my body, Professor, and conceal my scars. All of them. I want them to carry on believing I was perfect.  
  
I'm going to find Ron and apologise, take his suffering from him as he took mine from me so many years ago when we met. He shouldn't have died, it's my fault. Now is my time to atone.  
  
Thank you.  
(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((  
  
Sailin' for the sun  
  
'Cause There is one  
  
Knows where I'm from  
  
I care for you  
  
I really do I really do  
  
Come closer now  
  
So you can lie  
  
Right by my side  
  
Sit alone in the sun  
  
I wrote a letter to you  
  
Getting over myself  
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Well? What do you think? Love it or hate it? I am considering doing a sequel but only if I get 50 positive reviews. PLEASE feed me. I'm hungry. That little blue box in the corner will stop my rabid, starvation induced muses from kicking in, and will prevent me from writing horrible slash, eg Snape/Hagrid, Buckbeak/Hagrid, I could go on. But I'm sure you'd rather I didn't. 


	2. Final chapter

Another song-fic. I am getting really into these. . .but then again, I'm so obsessed with Snarry that everything I hear seems to hold some rabid plot fiend. This song is 'Porcelain' from the same album, Californication, by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Please review! The same disclaimer applies as in the first chapter.  
  
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Severus Snape sat down with a heavily undignified sigh in his chair, and toasted his empty chambers. Well, he would have toasted them, had not a rather frantic owl swooped down from the shadowed rafters and dropped a letter in his vodka.  
  
Cursing with a certain ferocity which even Potter had barely been able to arouse in him that year, Snape ripped open the letter. He noticed two things very quickly; one, that the letter was smudged and blotted in a very familiar hand, and two that the word 'Ron' could be discerned near the bottom of the parchment. The first tendrils of apprehension began to stroke at his veins and he skimmed the letter with his eyes as quickly as he could.. The owl watched with big liquid eyes as he swore violently, threw the letter down, and ran out of his rooms.  
  
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Porcelain, Are you wasting away in your skin Are you missing the love of your kin, Drifting and floating and fading away  
  
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He has sat by Harry's bedside for a few days now. The boy's breath is shallow and uneven, and Albus cannot understand what on earth possessed the boy to do it. He has tried sharing his incomprehension with Severus, but Severus won't reply. His face holds a haunted look, because they both know deep down that this will not be the happy ending that they have become so accustomed to.  
  
He found Harry purely by accident, and was able to stem the blood flow. Now, having read the letter carefully, he regrets his decision. But for once, Severus allowed himself the bliss of ignorant panic. He had paled, and darted towards the boy, trying to hold his skin together, trying to hold his very soul together. There had been so much blood, and even now it haunts him. Confusion riddles him, and he wishes he could have just let the boy die. Because a small part of him knows that that was truthfully what he wanted, but the most selfish part of him wouldn't allow his feet to walk away.  
  
And so Harry lies, blending in with the sheets like a chameleon. Still, he is different, as he always has been and always will be. Isolated, perhaps, and yet unable to escape company. One of life's sick ironies which he is currently in no state to ponder.  
  
Wizarding medicine is a great thing, but there has to be a certain vim in the person to allow the body to heal. And they all know, Minerva and Poppy and Albus and Severus, they all know that Harry has lost his force. The boy that is lying in obscenely clean clothes with bandages allowing a faint pink of blood to show through, the colour the only sign of his life, is no hero. He's just a boy. Fragile and delicate. Alone, and now broken. And, oddly enough, no matter what they might say, nobody regrets that more than Severus Snape.  
  
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Little lune All day Little lune Porcelain Do you carry the moon in your womb Someone said that you're fading too soon Drifting and floating and fading away  
  
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There are more people. The godfather has arrived, and Granger. They are all sobbing hysterically, with an emotion so strong that it is almost painful to watch, rather embarrassing, like watching someone vomit in public. Harry isn't moving, although he could well be awake. If he is, Severus is sure that he isn't going to want to be with all these people. They don't understand. They say so themselves; 'why did he do it?' 'such a beautiful boy' 'I don't understand'. And how right they are. Because he isn't beautiful. He's scarred, and horrendously so. Severus has carried out his appointed role as specified in The Letter as he has come to think of it in his head, but he is scared.  
  
Fright is an odd emotion for such a strong man, but afraid is definitely the right word for the way Hogwarts' potions master is feeling. If Harry goes, he won't understand the world any more, or so he feels. It's incomprehensible. Unattainable. Foreign. Because he has known Harry so long, has villainised him since before he was born, and now - gone.  
  
As though reading his thoughts, Harry's hand twitches, and Severus is there in an instant.  
  
"Mr Potter" he says coolly, and then kicks himself for being so distant. But a small smile crossed Harry's dry lips.  
  
"I think I'm going, sir" he says, and there's an inner peace in those words that jerks at Severus' heart strings and makes him do something very odd.  
  
"Please" he says, the back of his throat tightening. Suddenly all his senses seem heightened, because he can taste salt in his mouth, and the lights suddenly seem very bright. Harry is lightly blurred, like an angel, and a warmth prickles it's way along one of Severus' pale cheeks. It is silent now; he supposes that everyone has left, and he should really call them back, but he know that it is too late, and perhaps it has been too late since the day that Hagrid arrived at Harry's house and changed his life.  
  
"Please" he says again, and hears a crack in his voice. He doesn't understand, now the time has come. He doesn't want Harry to leave. He doesn't want to feel alone. He doesn't want to register any more death after the reign of Voldemort, because everything was meant to be so fucking perfect. But this isn't perfect.  
  
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((  
  
Porcelain Are you wasting away in your skin Are you missing the love of your kin Nodding and melting and fading away  
  
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"Thank you" comes from his side, so quietly that he could pretend he didn't hear it, were he so inclined. But the faith that this stupid, ridiculous boy has placed in him overwhelms him far more than any accusations or atrocities. It takes him a few minutes to regain use of his voice, and as soon as he realises his tongue is free, he leans forward.  
  
"Don't go!"  
  
He is only vaguely aware of the fact that he is sounding desperate, and he doesn't care. He wants Harry to live, and he can recognise this at the moment, although in a few weeks he will undoubtedly recover. Harry closes his eyes, and shakes his head.  
  
"I'm too selfish" he sighs, and as his chest falls with his exhalation it occurs to Severus that it will never rise again. Suddenly feeling quite selfish, because it is entirely too late to save the saviour, he begs.  
  
"Please."  
  
"Thank you" murmurs Harry, with the hint of a smile, and the tears begin to flow freely, although no part of Severus' conscious mind can grasp the concept of himself crying. He grasps the boy's hand, aware of crossing a fine line, and presses frantically on one bandaged wrist. The blood rises up through the gauze and stains his finger a deep crimson. It feels for a moment like his own life force in his hands. More frantically, he scrabbles with the dressings, trying to find the slow but steady pulse that he has been watching for the last few days. Harry's eyes are closed and there is a little peaceful smile on his face.  
  
There are hands behind him. Pulling him, pushing him. For one alarming moment he understands what Harry has coped with for all of his life, and with a last horrified glance at the body - body! - lying in his arms, he allows himself to be lead off to a new life.  
  
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Little lune All day Little lune. . .  
  
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Sometimes Severus will walk alone by the lake that reflects the rays of wintry sunshine back into the cloudless sky, and wonder whether he would have even spoken to Harry had he lived. Whether they could have overcome the animosity to really get to know each other.  
  
People say that the death has affected him, with irony, mocking his icy demeanour throughout the war. But Severus knows that he has not changed; it is a more accurate description to say that he has grown a little. He can at least now hear the word 'Potter' without snarling or immediately deducting points, which is an infinite improvement. But it hurts him, hurts his sensibility and pride, that it took the death of a boy to make him realise that. Surely Harry had some ulterior motive?  
  
Once a month, he will visit Harry's grave at the dead of night, a grim spectre in the shadowed church-yard. He flits almost like death itself between the stones that bear irrelevant names until he reaches Harry's, and there he will stand as rigid as a post, a silent sentinel guarding the boy's sleep. He doesn't keep track of the time; rather, he lets his thoughts dictate how long he remains. When his eyes moisten and fill with tears, he tries desperately hard not to blush in shame, and he stands resolutely, refusing to wipe his cheeks. The idea of crying is alien to him, and yet in the midst of the night it seems too right, and on occasions he will fall to his knees in the anaemic grass and the cold air will wrench choked sobs forcibly from his chest, like a surgeon removing a tumour. In the morning, he will return to Hogwarts with tired eyes and crumpled robes, with a lightness which he is unaccustomed to feel, and he might grace Albus with a smile.  
  
And perhaps that was worth Harry dying for.  
  
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Feed me!  
  
FEED ME!  
  
I hope you enjoyed - there will positively be no continuation of this. I am thinking of following Daggy and abandoning all my WIPs, especially 'Moment' as I have no idea where it's going. Well actually, I do - nowhere fast. I am liking drabbles and song-fics more at the moment. Anyway, please review this, let me know if it made you laugh or cry, or just flame me if you want. Just something to let me know that you read it. Thanks :-D 


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